Book by Cover
by telegramsam
Summary: Former Opera Ghosts don't make very good pets. Raoul is about to find out why.


Author's note: Part emo angst/part character study. This story is subtle parody of the typical angst!fic at heart. It's all a bit silly, really.

Mostly ALW movie, plus some book canon thrown in for fun (i.e. amalgamation of movie/book back story and movie/book personality for Erik—movie!Erik just wasn't quite unhinged enough for me I guess.)

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'"_Any one who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eyes are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye; and he who remembers this when he sees any one whose vision is perplexed and weak, will not be too ready to laugh; he will first ask whether that soul of man has come out of the brighter life, and is unable to see because unaccustomed to the dark, or having turned from darkness to the day is dazzled by excess of light. And he will count the one happy in his condition and state of being, and he will pity the other; or, if he have a mind to laugh at the soul which comes from below into the light, there will be more reason in this than in the laugh which greets him who returns from above out of the light into the den'._

-Plato, _The Republic_

_'No, layers! Onions have layers! Ogres have layers! Onions have layers!__  
__You get it? We both have layers!'_

_-_Shrek

_"You do it to yourself, you do, and that's what really hurts…"_

_- _Radiohead_ "Just"_

_**---**_

Book by Cover

It was something he hadn't thought about in months. Or, some_one_ rather. He'd not given much thought to the infamous Opera Ghost since he and Christine had made their flight from the phantom's lair, other than to scan the morning papers for news of the devil's capture or death. Unfortunately, no trace of him had been found since the fire that consumed much of the Opera Populaire.

No, after leaving that underground cavern with its eccentric furnishings and fathomless lake, he'd not allowed even his thoughts to wander back that way. He knew Christine thought of him still, from time to time. A glaze would fall over her eyes, as she would stare out of the window at nothing, and little short of a physical poke to her ribs would pull her from her reverie. He'd ask her for her thoughts, and she'd only smile sadly and shake her head at him. He knew she was thinking of her lost angel.

Oh he wasn't jealous, not really. He knew she loved her husband, adored him, and he had nothing to fear from the lost phantom. He remembered fondly their wedding. It had been an extravagant affair, with half the upper-crust of France in attendance, as well as the majority of the talent of the opera house. His older brother had not approved of the match, thinking a singer beneath his station, but attended nonetheless, and by the end of the ceremony, he'd finally given in and congratulated his younger brother.

Raoul couldn't fault her for still holding a soft spot in her heart for the undeserving miserable creature. She was soft-hearted and sympathetic by nature, and it was one of the things about her he loved most of all. She'd been more reflective lately than usual, but he put it down to her pregnancy. They would have their first child within a few short months. The doctor told them to plan for the possibility of twins, even.

She was sitting now on a plush sofa in their drawing room, working at some needlepoint project. It was a skill she'd picked up recently from one of the servant girls. Raoul didn't see the point of it, but Christine had merely said she wanted something to keep her hands busy and shrugged at him. He went over to her and sat beside her, wrapping an arm about her shoulders. She spared him a coy smile and continued at her work. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes and stretching his legs out before him.

Lately though, his own thoughts had been straying back to that fateful night, when he came so close to losing everything. The phantom had turned out to be not a ghost, but a maniac, using Christine's love and sympathetic nature against her and against him. He had not expected to survive that night.

It was the most curious thing, though, when he let them go. He now racked his brain, trying to figure out why. Why would a selfish, childish, controlling monster suddenly drop his prey? He did not know who the phantom was, only what Mme Giry had told of him, which amounted to precious little.

It still pained him to think of that kiss, the kiss between his Christine and that gargoyle, but the sting had lessened with time and the knowledge that Christine was his. He thought on it now, the image still flash-burned into his mind's eye. The change in the phantom had been almost instantaneous as her perfect lips left his, his unmasked face scrunching into a grimace that could only be described as an expression of agony. He hadn't known what to expect at that moment, only that he held his breath until the phantom ordered them out.

He'd been gripped in fear, too, when Christine hesitated, telling him to wait a moment and dashing from his grasp back to her angel of music. What transpired between them in those moments, she never told him, and he was simply too grateful that she returned to him to press the matter.

"What's the matter, dear?"

Her voice, musical even in everyday speech, broke through his brooding thoughts, pulling him back into the present.

"Nothing, love."

He stared at her warmly, taking in the glow that seemed to surround her these days. She wore pregnancy well, he thought. She set her sewing down on the table and took his hands into hers, leaning into his chest and pushing her head under his chin. He held her there lightly.

He tried to relax, but his thoughts moved back to their previous track no matter his efforts.

"Christine?"

"Yes, dear?"

He sighed.

"Nothing. Never mind."

She untangled herself from him and looked at him inquiringly.

"What, Raoul? Something is clearly bothering you."

"It really is nothing, love. I was just wondering about… Well, it doesn't matter now."

She lifted an eyebrow in an expression of curiosity that he had come to recognize as a portent of mischief.

"If it were nothing, it would not command your thoughts so. Come now, out with it, or I shall have to force it from you!"

He fairly well grinned. He loved her when she was like this. So many women had no sense of humor at all. His smile fell though, when he gave in and spoke his thoughts.

"I have heard nothing of the phantom since night of the fire at the opera. I wonder, is he alive or dead?"

Christine frowned, a slight crease appearing between her brows. She seemed to ponder the comment for a moment before replying.

"Whether he is alive or dead, I assure you we have nothing to fear from him any longer."

"But how can you know that? If he survives, he might return for you."

Christine closed her eyes in frustration, then shook her head seemingly to shed the feeling.

"Raoul, when he released me, _he released me._ He will haunt us no longer."

"But how do you know?"

"Please trust me, Raoul. He won't harm us."

"But—"

"Raoul, he won't."

"W_hy_ won't he?"

Her eyes left his and she stared down at her hands, rubbing at her fingers as if they pained her.

"Because… Because he loves me. He knows that I love you. That's… That's why he let us go that night, Raoul."

Raoul clenched his teeth as jealousy rose unbidden in his throat. He tried to clamp the feeling down, but failed.

"Do you love him?"

Christine was growing rather annoyed herself.

"Why are you acting so childish tonight, Raoul? Well, if you must know, I do care for him -- How could I not? But I'm here with you, not him! I chose you!"

Raoul fairly well deflated at that comment. She was right, he knew it, but the opera ghost still haunted his mind. Why the phantom had entered his mind of late, he did not know, but he wished fervently that he could exorcise him. He pulled Christine back to him, tucking her under his chin again.

"But still, I wonder… You know, the Opera Populaire was purchased recently. Repairs will begin soon, I think. The new owners apparently intend to renovate. I wonder if the ghost still haunts it?"

Christine poked him sharply in the flank.

"Leave it be, Raoul."

She extricated herself from his grasp and stood, holding her hand out to him.

"It's late, let's retire to bed, my husband."

His wife slipped quickly into the arms of Morpheus last night, but his own thoughts still circled the old opera house, keeping him awake and his mind restless. What was the phantom? Musical genius, magician, murderer, ghost… madly in love with his wife? It didn't add up. And more importantly, was he dead or alive, was he again skulking down in the bowels of the city, or plotting a return?

That morning, he'd made no mention of his plans to his wife, merely smiled at her, had breakfast at her side, and casually announced that he had business to attend to in the city and might not be back until late, and that she should not wait up for him.

He slipped a small pistol into his coat and called for his horse. A carriage might have been more convenient, but he felt like riding. Also, he wanted to make this journey alone, and did not trust any driver to keep his mouth shut about his impending visit. He knew Christine would have his head if she found out he intended to seek out news of the phantom. She may not be in love with the angel of music any longer, but she still seemed protective of the beast, always steering the conversation away from him when friends and visitors asked her about her frightening adventure.

Upon arriving in front of the deserted remains of the opera house, he left his horse by the entrance and warily walked up the front steps. The front doors were boarded well, so he walked around to the side entrances. They, too, were boarded with signs forbidding trespassing plastered about them. He found one, however, with a loose board and, glancing around for witnesses and finding none, quickly pulled down a few boards, and ducked into the building.

Weak watery sunlight penetrated the higher windows, but everything was dull and gray, covered in ash. The infrastructure didn't seem to have suffered much, being mostly stone, but all the color and rich drapery that once adorned the building was gone. The once-magnificent golden statues were blackened and peeling.

He lit the small lantern he'd had the foresight to bring with him, seeking out the path Mme Giry had led him down that fateful night. The candelabras along the walls were cold and dark, his lamp the only faltering source of light. The darkness seemed to swallow up the weak flame and close in on him. He swallowed thickly as he reached the spiraling stairway, proceeding slowly down into the gloom.

The lake, too, was as it had been. There was no boat waiting for him, so he stepped into the brackish water and slowly made his way around the perimeter, holding the lamp above his head as the water came up to his waist, chest, shoulders, neck… The ground beneath him began to rise again just before it reached his nose and he heaved a sigh of relief.

The lair of the phantom, however, was not as he remembered it. The mob had destroyed it—the curtains were torn, candles scattered and crushed under foot, the magnificent organ lay in pieces, papers were scattered over the flagstones about it. He bent and picked one of them up, and glanced at the others. They were all covered with musical notation. He had taken violin lessons as a child, though he had no skill for music and had long since forgotten how to read the notation.

Glancing around, the place clearly looked deserted. He compulsively bent down and began gathering the numerous loose papers together. He didn't know why he cared. He shouldn't care, they were the phantom's after all. It seemed a shame, though. Even he had to admit the ghost wrote devastatingly beautiful music. He knew much of it had been written specifically for Christine's voice.

On impulse, he shoved the papers into his shirt. He chewed on his lower lip and scanned the room for he knew not what. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a sound, like the ruffle of fabric. He strained his ears, wondering if he'd imagined it. Minutes passed, and he dismissed it, turning to leave when he heard it again, this time for certain, followed suddenly by a violent coughing. He slowly approached a tattered curtain still hanging from the walls, gently lifting it aside to reveal another room.

He lifted the lantern up, trying to push back the inky blackness of the small room. He almost missed it at first, the lump of blankets shivering in the corner. He hesitated until another wracking cough barked out from under the cloth. Setting his lamp on the floor, he knelt down by it and slowly peeled back the layers. He flinched back at what lay inside.

The phantom was not dead yet, but very nearly so. The ruined visage faced the wall, paying no heed to the intruder for the moment. Raoul gulped and fought with himself while he watched the dim light reflect from the perspiration dotting the flushed, malformed skin. He could turn away and leave now, and never return. No one would know he ever came here, and the phantom would die and take his dark secrets to the grave. He stood up, but could not lift his feet to move, either out of the tomb, for that was what this place was, or toward the ghost before him.

It was the ghost who made the next move. The phantom breathed in and released several slow, rattling breaths.

"Whoever you are.. If you've come to kill me, be done with it, or leave me in peace. I shall be dead soon, either way."

Raoul did not move. The man's voice was barely recognizable. Once dark and rich, it was now hoarse. Still, he felt no pity for the creature, though he knew he was about to be very cruel. He should leave, but he had to know.

"Why did you let us go?"

He didn't expect the pained laugh that came, followed by more violent hacking. Raoul began to grow angry when no other reply came. He knelt down again by the ghost, and ripped the blankets off the sick creature, grabbing his shoulders and hauling him into a sitting position. He fixed the heavy-lidded green eyes with a demanding stare, pointedly ignoring the creature's violent shivering and the heat emanating from his skin.

"Why?"

The phantom blinked several times, trying to pull himself together.

"Because I love her."

"You pursued her in madness because you love her, then you let her go! Why?"

No answer came. The sick man was barely clinging to consciousness. It was all Raoul could do not to slap him senseless. He let go of the phantom, allowing him to slide back into a heap on the cold floor. It was the same answer given him by Christine, which was no answer at all. He grabbed his lamp and stood to leave, making it to the door when he stopped. The wheezing behind him was growing more labored.

He didn't know where the thought came from, the thought to do something. He cursed himself as he turned around to stare at the heap on the floor. He could leave right now. No one would ever know he'd been here. Christine would never know what became of her angel of music, and he would never tell her. It would be his own dark secret.

He rubbed at his face and rolled his eyes at the ridiculous situation. He could no more keep any secret from his wife than she could from him. It would come out sooner or later, and she would cry. Oh she would cry, and her anger would be unparalleled. She might never forgive him.

He cursed himself as he walked over to the phantom, and in one swift movement, he scooped the creature up, throwing the thin frame over his shoulder. The ghost was at least his own height, perhaps an inch or two more, but barely weighed anything, nothing left but a bag of bones weakly protesting from shoulder.

"Don't think for a second I care what happens to you," he answered the incoherent mewling behind him, "but Christine would never forgive me if I left you here in such a state."

Raoul consoled himself with the thought that the ghost would probably die anyway.

Leaving the opera house, Raoul noted that the sun had climbed past noon and looked around for his horse. His burden still made weak formless noises of protest, louder still in the glare of daylight (how many years has it been since this phantom has seen the sun?), but lacked the energy to do anything more. Raoul now wished that he'd chosen a carriage instead. He propped the phantom up behind the saddle and mounted the horse in front of him, drawing one of the nearly limp arms across his waist in a strong grasp to prevent the ghost from falling. Raoul breathed in through his mouth and exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to dispel the scent of sweat, illness and death clinging to ghost behind him.

The phantom's head fell forward, coming to rest with his closed eyes tight against Raoul's shoulder blade, the line of the nose digging uncomfortably into his back. Did the sun cause him such discomfort that he'd be willing to touch his enemy to block it, or was he merely trying to hide his unmasked face from view? He looked down at the hand in his grasp. He hadn't noticed in the shadows of the Opera's cellars, but in broad daylight, the phantom truly looked like a ghost. The skin was slightly jaundiced but so pale that bluish lines of blood coursing beneath it stood out in a ghastly contrast. Raoul grabbed the reigns and pointed the animal's nose toward home.

It was dark by the time he reached the estate. Instead of heading directly to the stables, he made his way to the currently unoccupied guest house. The lump behind him was sleeping fitfully and coughing loudly occasionally, and he found himself curiously being careful not to wake the dying ghost as he pulled him off the horse and carried him inside.

He carried the unresisting bag of bones to a first floor bedroom. He flung aside the blankets and dropped the ghost on the mattress and lit a few candles. He pulled a chair over by the bed and sat down, staring at his former rival. Former rival? There was an interesting thought. Well, the phantom was certainly no threat to anything at the moment, at least. He was dressed only in a thin white sweat-soaked shirt and brown cotton breeches. No shoes were on his feet, how had he missed that before? No matter, it simply saved him the trouble of having to remove them.

Well, he had kidnapped the phantom (how's that for irony?), but now what was he to do with him? He thought of calling a doctor, but he knew of none who were both skilled and discrete enough to trust with the infamous Opera Ghost. For the same reason, he could trust none of his servants. It was no use trying to hide him from Christine; she would know of her angel's presence sooner or later, though Raoul would not allow her near a deathly ill man while she was pregnant no matter who the man was. She had better damn well appreciate what he was doing though, allowing this demon into their home.

The phantom's pale green eyes opened suddenly, but he stared blankly at the ceiling and made no notice of Raoul's presence. Raoul hesitantly reached out to touch the ghost's face. The phantom flinched away and cried out at his touch, but his fingers followed him, landing on the marred cheek and jaw that clenched underneath his touch. Raoul was surprised by the amount of heat coming from the skin; the ghost's fever had spiked dangerously sometime during the ride back to the estate.

He sighed heavily, resigning himself to his task. Christine _really_ had better appreciate this. He quickly stripped the ghost of his sparse sweat-soaked clothing, trying not to notice or care about the patchwork of scars over his back and legs and leaving him to fetch cool water and towels. He forced some of the water down the ghost's throat and soaked the towels in the remainder, placing them over the thin frame, changing them from time to time throughout the night. Otherwise he simply tried to ignore the sick phantom as much as possible.

The ghost's fever finally abated sometime around 3 AM. He was still hot, though no longer dangerously so, even though the coughing and ominous rattle in his chest had not lessened in the slightest. It was fortunate for Raoul that he was still weak, for he had lunged at him as soon as his wits had returned to him. Had he been in good health, Raoul would likely have been strangled, but as it was, it wasn't difficult for Raoul to wrestle the protesting demon back into bed. The phantom finally gave up, curling into a tight fetal position and turning away from Raoul, as if he were trying to disappear altogether.

"You should have let me die in peace where I was."

"I probably should have, yes. But you still haven't given me an answer."

Long minutes passed, filled with silence save for the wheezing of the ghost.

"I let her go because I love her."

"Yes, you told me that before. Still doesn't make sense – you pursued her in the first place because you love her after all."

"I would have destroyed her, swallowed her light in my shadows… You… you make her happy, so I gave you back to her… She is happy?"

"Yes."

Raoul suddenly felt ashamed, could feel his own cheeks burning as if with a fever. Would he have been able to let Christine go, if it were for her own good? How could a demon, a murderer be capable of such a pure love? It made not a stitch of sense. He got up and left, feeling more confused than ever. Who, and what was this phantom of the opera?

Christine stirred and stared groggily at him when he slipped into bed beside her, but soon settled. Despite his racing thoughts, he fell asleep quickly and was none too happy when dawn awoke him only a few hours later. He bathed, shaved and dressed in a stupor, scarcely exchanging more than a mumbled "g'morning" with his wife. He quickly slipped out to the guest house to confirm that his charge was still breathing (he was, and thankfully sleeping as well). Christine didn't press him until they sat down for breakfast.

"Late night?"

He nodded slightly, leaning over a cup of tea, allowing the steam to ease the ache behind his temples.

"What were you doing yesterday? I was told you returned before midnight, but I know it was much later than that when you came to bed."

Raoul hesitated. How much should he reveal? She'd get it all out of him eventually, he might as well tell the truth. He gulped his tea and screwed up his courage.

"I went back to the Opera Populaire."

"You didn't! Raoul, I told you, _leave that poor man be!_"

He had no cause to be angry with her, but his anger with himself seeped out anyway.

"If I had left that 'poor man' be, he'd likely be dead by now! He'll probably be dead in a few days anyhow, he's quite ill."

Christine's face suddenly became very sober. She was on the edge of being truly angry with him, not merely disappointed. He knew he was sitting on the knife's edge of falling into rather hot water with his wife.

"Where is he? What did you do with him?"

He tried to supplicate her temper quickly.

"He's here, in a bedroom in the guest house, I was tending to him last night until the fever went down. Pneumonia I suspect..."

She stood quickly and made a beeline for the door, but Raoul grabbed her arm before she could make it across the room.

"You are not going to him, not while he is so ill and you are carrying our child!"

She gave him a glare that would freeze the devil in his tracks, but acquiesced to his logic. He released her and she collapsed into a chair and buried her face in her hands. It wasn't but a few moments before she was sobbing openly. Raoul gave a long-suffering sigh, pulled up a chair beside her and pulled her into his arms. He rubbed her back and tried not to let his frustration through as he buried his face in her brown curls.

"I'm sorry Christine. I really am… I know he's your angel. He might yet live…"

Somehow, admitting that didn't bother him as much as it did before. She was his, now until death and maybe beyond. Christine sniffled and scrubbed at her eyes until Raoul pulled a napkin from the breakfast table and wiped her face dry with it. She took the cloth from him and wrung it in her hands while staring at her lap. She put a hand over her growing abdomen.

"I'm sorry too Raoul. It isn't fair to you. I shouldn't be crying over another man like this, it's selfish and silly. I just wish he could write his music and be happy. He deserves that much…"

Raoul wasn't so sure what the ghost did or didn't deserve, though he wasn't about to voice that thought. He sat with his wife for a few more minutes before releasing her.

"I suppose I ought to go feed our ghost…"

She smiled at him as he walked toward the kitchens. He glanced around for the staff, but as they had already cleaned up after breakfast and left, the room was empty. He rifled through the cupboards and iceboxes, looking for something that a sick man could stomach. The fact that the ghost had clearly not eaten much in quite some time complicated matters -- he was no doubt malnourished as well as ill.

Raoul didn't have much knowledge of medicine or nursing, so he just grabbed a pitcher of milk and some soft bread and headed out with them, gritting his teeth as he approached the guest house. Playing nursemaid to a madman was hardly his idea of a day well spent, but for Christine, he'd put up with it. Stepping through the door, he heard the ghost stirring in the bedroom. He set the food down on a table in the hall and cautiously opened the door.

The ghost was awake and yet not, tangled up in the blankets, unseeing eyes staring at some imagined apparition with an expression of absolute terror on his face. His fever had obviously risen again, and he was caught in a waking nightmare. Raoul approached him slowly. The ghost did not see him at first, until suddenly the glazed green eyes shifted from the ceiling to him. He pulled himself into a sitting position, scooting back toward the corner of the bed, an arm raised as if to fend off a blow. The ghost began babbling in some foreign language, his voice rising in pitch until the words left, leaving only a pathetic keening sound and tears dripping onto the blankets.

Raoul stared at him dumbly, not knowing what to do. Should he just leave? He had half a mind to simply walk over and slap the ghost, but didn't think that course of action would turn out well. He shrugged and proceeded as if he were approaching an untamed colt, extending an open hand and murmuring nothing in particular. The ghost merely flipped over and curled up at his touch, collapsing in on himself.

Raoul left his hand on the phantom's back, rubbing gently with his thumb, but it did no good. The fever was probably baking his brains at the moment, and whatever unseen terror stalked him was beyond Raoul's reach. The coughing still plagued the ghost, though it was weaker than before. Raoul was not certain it was a good sign. They stayed like this for nearly half an hour. Raoul breathed a sigh of relief when the ghost finally calmed and fell asleep again. He stood up and retrieved more cold water, trying again to dampen the flames that threatened to consume the phantom.

It was nearly an hour later when the phantom regained true consciousness. Raoul said nothing to him, merely stood and retrieved the milk and bread. He set them on the table by the bed, but the phantom made no move toward them, being too weak or to obstinate to bother. Raoul rolled his eyes, propped the ghost up, and tore the bread into small pieces, shoving them between the phantom's protesting lips, followed by the milk. After Raoul had satisfied himself that the ghost had eaten all he could manage without losing it, he grabbed the half-empty pitcher and made to leave until he was stopped by the ghost's voice.

"You should let me die."

He stood in the doorway, not bothering to face the ghost.

"You're right, I should. But I'm not going to."

The phantom gave no reply, but Raoul was not quite ready yet to leave. He turned around to face the ghost this time.

"So what sort of demon does it take to frighten another demon? You had quite an interesting episode earlier, though I doubt you remember."

The ghost's face turned away in what Raoul was loathe to admit was bare-faced shame.

"There are worse creatures in this world than I, Vicomte."

Raoul started to reach out to the ghost, but caught himself. He shook his head and returned to the kitchens, placing the remaining milk back into the icebox. He called again for his horse, though this time he would not be traveling far, merely into town to consult a physician on the ghost's illness.

---

He had been careful to sound as if it were merely a servant of his who was ill, and left with a script for a couple different medicines, which he promptly bought and returned with.

The ghost was not pleased at being roused again, and grimaced at the taste of the thick syrup being roughly spooned down his throat. Raoul could merely scratch his head at the reaction he got when attempting to spread the strong-smelling ointment over the man's chest and neck. If he'd not known better, he would have thought he'd been trying pour acid over him, for all the flinching, flailing and squirming. He practically had to sit on the man's chest to hold him down while he rubbed the ointment into the thin skin.

"Honestly! I'm not trying to kill you… as much as I'd rather!"

The ghost regarded him with wary eyes, but stiffly stilled himself and endured Raoul's touch. Raoul got the somewhat unnerving impression that few had touched him but to harm him in the past, and made an effort to be somewhat gentle. Not that it really made a difference to him. The sooner the ghost was healthy, the sooner he could drop him back into the catacombs of Paris and forget about him.

At least the medicine seemed to be working. The ghost was coughing violently again, but unlike before, it was actually working – the thick mucus choking his lungs was breaking loose and coming up now. Raoul put a trash bin next to the bed so it had somewhere to go besides the floor (_how disgusting_, he thought). After only a few minutes, the ghost rolled onto his back, too tired to bother. The phlegm rattled in his throat and chest as his skin took on a frightening bluish cast while he wheezed heavily.

Raoul had been ill like this himself once though, after falling into a dirty creek and nearly drowning when he was a child. His ribs ached in the memory of it. Two days in a row, his governess had propped him upright and spent a half an hour slapping him hard on the back and making him cough, though he was exhausted. He'd hated her for months afterward, and only years later he realized how close to death he'd been.

He didn't think the phantom would allow such a thing. The image of Christine weeping over her dead angel crept into the back of his mind, though, and steeled himself for the likely unpleasant reaction he was about to get.

"If you don't clear your lungs, you'll drown on that mess."

The phantom made no move. Raoul pinched the bridge of his nose. He really should just leave and let the stubborn creature die. The ghost let out a gasp of surprise when Raoul suddenly grabbed his ankles and set his feet on the ground on either side of the trash bin, pulling him forward to sit up. Raoul shed his boots and sat cross-legged behind the ghost.

"If you didn't hate me before, you're really going to hate me after this, but it's for your own damn good. Cough as much as you can."

He slapped the phantom hard on the ribs with both hands, ignoring the flinching and cringing.

"I was not jesting about the coughing. I mean it."

Surprisingly, the ghost obliged, and violent hacking assailed Raoul's ears. He was glad Christine was elsewhere – she would have been shocked to hear such sounds from her angel of music. The two of them continued the process for about a half an hour until the phantom was bent over with his head on his knees, completely exhausted and completely uncooperative while Raoul's hand rested gently on the scarred back, rubbing slow circles like his own governess had done so many years ago. The ghost was too tired to protest, though the tension in his muscles betrayed his nervousness.

Raoul bent toward the ghost's back, listening closely. At least his breathing was clearer. He might actually live (_unfortunately_, Raoul mused to himself). He slid off the bed and retrieved a glass of water. He was surprised when the ghost drank it without question when Raoul held it to his lips. He lay down, going limp immediately. His voice was hoarser than ever; Raoul had to strain his ears to hear.

"You hate me, Vicomte."

It was a statement, not a question. Raoul saw no reason to refute it, as it was true.

"Why do you labor so to keep me alive?"

"For Christine's sake only."

"That's a lie, you could have easily left me… She would not have known."

"I can't lie to her."

"You could… You could have smothered me here, and she wouldn't have suspected anything…"

Raoul didn't know whether to be insulted or not.

"Unlike you, Monsieur Phantom, I am not a murderer. Nor am I the unfeeling monster you seem to think me. I could no more have left you in that pit than any other dying man…"

"Erik."

"What?"

"Erik. Not Phantom. I have a name, you know!"

Raoul blinked a few times, trying to process that information. He supposed that it shouldn't be such a shock to learn that the ghost had a name, but it was. Names like "Erik" were given to the living, not to haunting spirits. He quickly composed himself, not wanting his surprise to show too much.

"Well, good day to you then, Monsieur Erik, I will return later with your lunch. In the meantime, I must check up on my wife."

The extra emphasis he put on _my wife_ was mostly unintentional, but he did not feel the slightest bit sorry when the barb hit home and the phantom— er, Erik rolled to his side away from him. Why his mood had suddenly turned so vicious, he couldn't quite say, but he felt a somewhat sadistic need to drive the point home.

"She's expecting you know. She'll be a mother in a couple months."

With that, he left the guest house and returned to the manor. He went to the parlor and stretched out on the sofa, closing his eyes and trying to ignore his headache. Why couldn't the phantom just have died in the fire like he was supposed to?

---

Who was the phantom anyway? He had a name now, _Erik_, not that it revealed much other than the fact that he ostensibly must have had a mother to give him that name. The notion that the ghost was normal, mortal man was unnerving to Raoul, even though he'd known it at least intellectually for some time already; it made him that much more difficult to despise. The last two days had to be some of the weirdest of his life. Why was Erik (he might as well try to get used to the name), who even in illness exuded a sense of alien power, so skittish under his touch? He supposed he could pin it down to the fact that he, Raoul was the man's rival, but it should be clear by now that he had no intention of slitting the man's throat. Raoul had a strong feeling that he normally didn't care to get too close to anyone, the way he typically wrapped himself in layers of thick fabric, a white mask and a thick fog of mystery.

A soft hand ghosted over Raoul's brow and he smiled, opening one eye to take in the sight of his wife.

"Christine…"

He sat up slowly and made room for her beside him.

"Is he still alive, Raoul?"

"Yes, he is. He managed to clear his lungs, for the most part. He will live, I suppose."

"You don't sound too happy about that. He won't harm me, I promise you! As soon as he is well, take him back to his opera house and everything will be as it was."

"I suppose so. There's not much left of his home, though. Most of it was destroyed by the police and the crowd in their search for him… What do you know of him, Christine? His past that is… I learned his name today, you know. He was called Erik at some point in his life, apparently."

Christine smiled slightly, though what there was to smile over, Raoul did not know.

"Not much. Only what Mme Giry told me – he was sold him to the gypsies where he was put on show as a devil's child and mistreated; that she found him at their fair when he was a young boy, when she was a ballerina still, and brought him to the opera house. You know this already, though. She mentioned once, though, after the fire, that he had disappeared for a few years, when he was not yet twenty. She doesn't know where he went, save that he returned to the opera house in sorry state a few years later, even more reclusive than he'd been before. I think she said it was a couple years after I arrived. She believes he traveled east. He brought that awful lasso back with him..."

"Hm… You know, even now I can make no sense of that ghost…"

"No ghost, Raoul. Just a man."

"Not an angel?"

She laughed lightly, a sound like bells.

"Oh don't berate yourself, it took me a while to figure it out too, Raoul. He was my angel of music for so long, and then a phantom… But they were just more of his masks..."

He was going to say something, but was silenced by her lips on his.

---

More milk and bread, along with an apple and some leftover rice pudding served as lunch for Erik, along with the foul-tasting medicine he so loathed. He was strong enough to sit up and eat by himself, much to Raoul's relief. He hadn't been keen on having to force-feed the former opera ghost again. The man was apparently feeling significantly better – he'd managed to make it across the room to pull the curtains shut to block out the sun at some point at least. Raoul handed the food to the other man and sat in the chair in the corner.

"So where do you come from? Do you have any family?"

Erik blinked owlishly at him for a moment, as though he didn't understand the question. Raoul repeated himself.

"As far as I know, I was born in a small town outside of Orleans. That is what I was told. I do not have any family I am aware of."

Short and to the point, no more information than was asked for. Raoul hadn't really been expecting him to open up and spill his guts, but his curiosity was not yet satisfied.

"You aren't that old. Your parents are probably still alive."

Erik gave him a look that threatened to bore straight through his forehead.

"I do not know, nor do I care if they live."

"Not even your own mother?"

Raoul could see a vein beginning to swell in the man's forehead.

"I have not seen my mother since I was a young child, and I have no desire to see the woman again... Why the sudden interest in my history all of a sudden, Vicomte? Do you have no other sport to entertain yourself with?"

Raoul knew he was treading on thin ice, but he was not especially worried; Erik was still weak from illness and did not have his famous lasso.

"Not at the moment, no. And as for the sudden interest, I'm just curious to know from whence the legendary opera phantom came."

"Why should you care, Vicomte? It's meaningless to you. You have your Queen and your Kingdom, all your fine horses… What should the life of a phantom mean to you?"

"The life of a phantom means nothing to me. But you're not a ghost, nor an angel. You've lost one mask already, why not shed them all?"

"You are a fool, Vicomte! What do you know of masks? You who walk in the light of day with impunity! That golden face of yours that others bow and scrap to! You could have anything you want! You want answers? _I owe you nothing!_"

The dishes hit the floor. It was a wonder they didn't shatter. Instantly, the phantom was again curled up in the corner of the bed, grinding his teeth in anger with his arms gripping his sides as though he, indeed, might shatter.

"At the moment, I believe you owe me your life."

"I never wanted it to begin with!"

Raoul's first instinct was to simply leave the man to wallow in his petty self-hatred. He did not know who first put this man into hell, but clearly the hell he lived in now was one of his own design, and all the more inescapable fore it. He cursed himself for the inklings of pity he felt. Pity helped no one, and it would only offend Erik anyway. He felt slightly helpless, which always made him feel angry as well.

"Well you'll have it whether you want it or not. For whatever reason, Christine seems to think you still hold some worth. _I just wish he could write his music and be happy,_ She said to me this morning. Why I don't know. It would be a mercy to you and the world to let you die. You may write beautiful music, but you share it with no one. You're a selfish bully with the devil's temper, nothing more!"

He stormed out of the room without waiting for Erik's reply, but he heard the angry incoherent scream followed by breaking china regardless. He paused for a second, then stomped his way back to the manor, gritting his teeth. He nearly ran over Christine as he bounded through the door.

"Raoul! What on Earth is the problem?"

"Your precious angel is _impossible_!"

He was mildly annoyed at the laugh he received from her. How could she be so flippant about a man who'd kidnapped her and tried to murder him like he was nothing but a naughty child?

"Christine, it is not funny. He tried to kill me last year, I save his life and he thanks me with constant rudeness and by breaking my china!"

She sighed and grabbed his hand, leading him into the study to sit.

"You can't expect that much out of him, Raoul. He's just a wild thing really, he's never had a proper family. Don't take it to heart. It doesn't mean anything."

"Well he had to have had a family at some point. He said he hadn't seen his mother since he was a child, but he had a mother at some point, obviously. What happened to her, anyway?"

"It was she who sold him to the gypsies. She hated him, I think, or maybe she was simply afraid of him, I don't really know. When he kidnapped me, before you came, he told me that it was she who first put a mask on him…"

"Hm. Figures. Bad blood begets bad blood I suppose."

Christine scowled at him.

"It is having judgments like that heaped on his head from birth that bent him into the man he is today. There's no need for you to add to the weight!"

Raoul sighed.

"I suppose not. But it is frustrating! Why can't he leave behind his past? He could have left the opera house _years_ ago, started a new life for himself somewhere! He's certainly not lacking in talent! So what if his face is deformed? I've seen men return from wars in worse shape than that, and they have little trouble finding employment…"

"Can you honestly see him working as a carpenter or accountant, Raoul? Music is his only true love. He is too afraid of the outside world. The Opera was safe for him. He was in control there and free to write his music. He was content enough, I think, before…"

"Before what? Before he burned his own home down?"

"Before he found me."

"This is _not_ your fault, Christine—Don't even think about feeling guilty on his account! That black spider wove his own web, and caught himself in it. He has no one but himself to blame."

"I don't disagree with you. I certainly wouldn't presume to take responsibility for his foolish actions, but that doesn't mean no one should give him any aid."

Raoul pulled his wife to his chest.

"You're too kind, Christine. Too kind by half."

"There's no such thing as too kind, my love. If there were no kindness in the world, we'd all be phantoms."

He spent the next few hours with his wife in one arm and a book in the other, reading to her and trying to unwind and allow his 'guest' to cool down as well.

---

The rest of the week passed calmly by comparison. Raoul avoided stepping on the phantom's toes and Erik was slowly regaining his strength, though the cough still plagued him. At the end of the week, Raoul deemed him fit to get out of bed for a while. He brought him simple but clean clothing from his own wardrobe. Erik was clearly reticent to leave the dark bedroom, but Raoul grabbed his wrist and practically dragged him out the door.

"You've spent enough of your life skulking in shadows, it won't kill you to go for a ride. No one will see you, the path I intend to take is no longer used by anyone but myself." he'd stated simply, despite all of Erik's violent protest.

Erik flung an arm over his eyes and hissed in pain when the bright sunlight hit his face. The light glared off his pale skin, and he fit well the image of a phantom. _At least he's put on some weight_, Raoul thought. He led the phantom around the house to where the two horses were waiting. Raoul helped him into the saddle, then mounted his own horse. Erik was still squinting painfully. Raoul led the way to a secluded path through a nearby wood. Erik said nothing, riding with his eyes closed and trusting the horse to follow the one leading, but the relief of being out of direct sunlight was plain to see as his expression finally slackened along with the some of the tension in his body.

Raoul slowed his horse's pace to ride side-by-side with the phantom, who still had his eyes shut and head bowed.

"It rained last night. You can still smell it on the breeze… The fresh air might do you some good..."

Erik gave a noncommittal grunt and continued to soak in the birdsong and crunch of grass under hoof, seemingly listening to music that existed only in his head. Raoul smiled despite himself in amusement at the normally hot-tempered man's unusually peaceful mood. He had been tempted to make another stab at getting a few more pieces of the man's mysterious past out of him, but now he was loathe to break the spell he was under.

He rode ahead for a while longer, not breaking the lull before reigning his horse to a halt at the border of a small clearing in the wood next to a stream. He dismounted and the phantom hesitatingly followed. He led the way to a soft mossy spot under a large oak tree and sat down with his back against the rough bark. Erik stretched out on his back and stared at the shifting of light and shadow that filtered through the canopy. Raoul watched him, unnoticed for a while. What was so horrible that this man could not leave behind?

"How long did you live under that Opera House?"

The peaceful expression on the phantom's face turned suspicious instantly.

"A long time. Antoinette Giry brought me there when I was ten."

"And you never left?"

"_No_."

"Mme Giry told Christine you left for a few years."

Erik sat up and scowled sourly at Raoul, looking truly the gargoyle.

"Mme Giry has a loose tongue."

He turned away from Raoul and sulkily watched the water pass in the stream as if it were the most interesting thing in the universe.

"She thought you traveled East, and said you brought back that lasso and many other terrible tricks."

Erik huffed loudly and coughed at the irritation the action brought to his abused throat. When he finally turned and spoke, he spit the words at Raoul like venom.

"What is it you want to know, Vicomte? Would you care if I told you that my own mother would not touch me unless she had no choice? That the village priest condemned me as having been touched by the fires of hell ere I was born? Would you turn from me if I told you I killed the gypsy who caged and whipped me for the entertainment of other children? Hm? What if I told you that I traveled to India and learned to wield the Punjab lasso and kill quicker than a viper? Then to Persia where I was the sultana's personal executioner and assassin, that I was expect to entertain her with the most creative and torturous deaths I could dream up? Oh, and I dreamed them up too! Is that what you want to hear? That I am a demon born of the fires hell! You are a fool, Vicomte, living here in your comfortable little dream! You know nothing of the harsh realities of the world outside the confines of your warm nest!"

With that, the phantom hauled himself to his feet and stalked off, making it only a few yards before he collapsed against a tree, wheezing and clutching his chest. He fell to his knees on the grass, hunched over with his head nearly to his knees, trying to regain his breath.

He did not seem to hear Raoul as he walk up behind him. Raoul stared down at the man at his feet, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't be trite or useless. It was an odd thing to admit that he didn't hate this man anymore. Erik's confession of murder and treachery should have sealed Raoul's revulsion of him. He did not feel pity for the man's past either though, only disappointment that such a thing shouldn't matter, and yet Erik clung to his pain like a child to a blanket.

He stood quietly for what seemed like an age, before sitting down next to the man, staring ahead at nothing in particular.

"You're no more a devil than a phantom or angel."

Erik's violent wheezing had slowed to measured breaths for a time, then he seemed to be holding his breath. Raoul reached over and brushed back the curtain of disheveled hair, revealing the unmarred side of Erik's face. He was surprised when the man didn't balk at his touch, or acknowledge it all, but more surprised still at the tears slowly falling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin into the grass. He released the man's hair, letting it cloak him once more and stood up.

"Perhaps I live in a fantasy, but you clearly live in a nightmare of your own design. You can't blame it all on your mother, the priest, the gypsies, or the sultana. What is this obsession with masks? Why cloak yourself in pain? Are you truly so afraid of yourself?"

Erik did not reply to him, but he had not really expected him to. He grabbed the man's elbow and pulled at him, trying to convince him to stand.

"Come on now, we should go back. I know you're tired."

Erik kept his eyes on the ground, his hair forward shielding his eyes, but rose and followed Raoul back to the horses. They returned to the guest house in silence. Erik was nearly unconscious and about to slide off the horse by the time they arrived. Raoul pulled him down to his feet and led him back to his bed.

"Yes."

"Hm? Yes what?"

"To your question, earlier. Yes, I am."

Erik turned away from Raoul and pulled the blankets over his head, clearly signaling that the conversation was over.

"Well… You shouldn't be afraid. I'm not afraid of you. Lay there and sulk for the time being, if you like. I'm going to go draw a bath for you. You stink."

He returned to the manor after leaving the churlish phantom to bathe and walked up to his bedroom, retrieving the papers he'd stolen from the phantom's lair. He rolled them up and searched the for his wife till he found her sitting in the garden. He sat down beside her and dropped the papers in his lap without speaking. He was rather exhausted himself. He wished he could trust the servants to keep their mouth shut, but as they had been hired by his father and brother, he had not had any say in the matter. If it had been up to him, he would have hired trustworthy people, not a bunch of gossips. He could only be grateful that his brother was in England on business until Christmas.

Christine looked up from her needlepoint at frowned at her husband. She took his hand into hers, rubbing lightly at his fingers.

"I'm sorry this has been so difficult for you, my love. I do appreciate it you know."

He bent down and leaned his forehead against hers, allowing their breath to mingle for a moment before stealing a kiss. He leaned back in his seat and looked up at a pair of starlings harassing a crow in the sky above, their angry calls reaching him below.

"I'm afraid he's not likely to shed the rest of his masks any time soon. I doubt he'll find any peace unless he does. It's hopeless, I think… His health is returning, slowly."

"That's one small mercy at least. Then you can send him home I suppose."

He unrolled the papers in his lap and rubbed his thumb over a corner the parchment as if he could conjure out of it some secret of the composer, or perhaps a jinni.

"I can't return him to the opera house. There's nothing left of his home anyway, and renovations will begin soon. When the construction crew takes over the building in a few weeks, it will be too dangerous. They're likely to scour the whole building from the foundation up for any weakness in the structure before they begin repairs. They could find him and… No, it's best for all involved that the opera ghost to remain dead."

Christine took the papers he was worrying and slowly looked through them with a pensive expression on her face.

"They were scattered over the floor of his home. I don't know why I picked them up. I don't even know if they all belong to the same piece."

Christine began studying them, trying to put them in an order she wasn't certain of. She hummed pieces of a melody from it, but it was all unfamiliar to her. He must not have finished it before the night of the Don Juan disaster. It was nothing he'd ever played for her. It was a beautiful but sad thing at any rate, mournful even. Not exactly funereal, but full of a keen sense of loss. She set the parchment on the table before the uncomfortable feeling could take hold of her.

"He could stay here…"

She hesitated at Raoul's look of horror.

"Just for a while, until other arrangements could be found."

"I really don't think it's a good idea to have him around here for long. I know you said he wouldn't hurt you, and you're _probably_ right, but… is it really a good idea to have you sitting here just out of his grasp? I mean, don't you think it's a bit cruel? I might share my home with him, but I certainly won't share you, and if he tries _anything_—"

"I wouldn't want you to share me with anyone! And I don't think he would try anything if _I _told him off. At this point I don't think he'd try anything even if I said nothing…"

"Hm... perhaps not. But I think you should avoid him for the most part. It would only complicate things."

"I'm not a little girl anymore, Raoul, I can take care of myself."

"It's not you I'm worried about. I still don't want you around him unless I'm there too. Or while he's still ill."

He squawked when she pinched him in the ribs.

"Fine, if it will calm your worried nerves. I think you are worked up over nothing though."

She gathered the papers back together off the table and handed them to Raoul.

"You should return these to their rightful owner. I should warn you—I doubt he'll be amused at you taking them. He's rather protective of his work."

"Too protective if you ask me. What's the point of writing music nobody else will ever hear? I'll give them back to him after dinner tonight, for what it's worth. He already hates me, so it can't very well do any more harm."

After his own dinner, Raoul made his thrice-daily trip to the kitchens, ducking the staff and loading up a plate with whatever looked decent. He had some trouble getting Erik to eat all that was put in front of him (at least he could stomach "real food" now), but he was determined to put a bit more flesh onto the man's wraith-like frame. He tucked the parchment under one arm and headed out.

He kept the parchment rolled up in one hand while Erik ate. It would do no good to upset him beforehand, as he would likely then refuse dinner.

When Erik was done, with a slight flourish he unrolled the papers and dropped them in the phantom's lap.

"They were scattered about your floor. Not sure why I picked them up, but they're yours."

Erik quickly rolled them back up and seemed to look around for somewhere to hide them.

"You had no right—"

"Probably not, but if you care about it, you shouldn't have left them lying all over the place… Don't know why it matters anyhow—you allow no one to hear your music but yourself."

Erik's hands clenched on the papers, threatening to crush them into oblivion.

"_You_ wouldn't understand it anyway."

"Well, it is difficult to understand music you can't hear, I imagine."

"Nobody would understand except me and…"

"And?"

"Christine."

Raoul thought he should feel jealous at the mention of his wife, but rather he found himself feeling rather amused more than anything.

"Well, she is something of a genius herself, I suppose, I won't deny that. But something does not have to be fully understood to be appreciated, you know. But no one will ever get the chance to appreciate or understand your music if you hide it all the time. It will simply be forgotten, along with its composer when he dies."

He hadn't intended the statement to be cruel, but Erik seemed to crumple under its weight as the parchment had under his hand, retreating yet again to his corner. Raoul sighed heavily in frustration.

----

He was walking out the guest house's door when he suddenly ran headlong into Christine.

"What on Earth are you doing out here? He's still ill! Go back to the manor—"

She lowered her voice so only her husband could hear.

"You've got to get him out of here, Raoul. One of the servants apparently saw Erik and suspects something—an inspector from Paris is sitting in the parlor. I told him I was going to find you, you've got to leave now."

She quickly pressed a bag into his hands and kissed him.

"I'm sorry."

She turned and walked quickly back toward the manor, leaving Raoul scratching his head. Raoul gulped and turned back into the guest house. He didn't want to do this. The man was recovering, but he was still ill. He walked over to Erik's bed where he was still sulking and ignoring Raoul.

"We've got to leave. Now. The Paris police are suspicious, Christine is keeping them busy."

As soon as the phantom uncurled and started to roll over, Raoul grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet, and all but dragged him toward the door, only looking down and noticing the man's bare feet at the last moment. He blinked at them for a second and then pulled open the bag Christine had given him around Among a few parcels of food, Raoul's pistol and extra shot were an old pair of his brother's boots. He closed the bag and flung it over his shoulder.

"Come on, quickly."

They ran to the stables and Raoul dropped the boots in front of Erik while he saddled two of the horses. Erik laced up the boots and watched Raoul with suspicious eyes.

"Where do you plan on taking me, exactly? Back to the opera house? They'll find me—"

"Of course not! I'm not stupid, you know—"

"Could have fooled me…"

"You can't go back there anyway, the new owners will start renovating the place in a few weeks, it'll be crawling with construction crews."

Raoul led the horses out of the stables and mounted the gray gelding, leaving the chestnut mare for Erik, who was clearly getting more agitated by the minute.

"Where are the hell are we going, Vicomte?"

"To be honest? I don't know. Away from Paris."

Raoul put his heels to the beast and took off at a gallop down the path he'd led Erik on a few weeks ago. Erik followed a few yards behind. Raoul put nearly a mile between them and the estate, allowed the horses to slow to a trot, but feeling no less urgent himself. Where could they go? Raoul wasn't stupid enough to take him to any of the homes owned by his family—that is where the police would first look as soon as they'd realized the phantom had given them the slip and the Vicomte was oddly not present. He rifled through his brain, trying to think of any of his friends who might owe him a favor and could be trusted.

After an hour of riding through the forest path, it opened up onto a road. He turned East. There was an architect now living just on the other side of the border of Belgium who was an old friend of his father's. He hadn't seen the man since he was about twelve, but he knew his father had gotten him out of a large amount of debt once and remembered him as being a kind individual. He just hoped that the story of the Phantom had not reached his ears. The other complication, of course, is that it would take many days to get there. Could they stay in the inns on the way? He didn't think it would be wise.

They rode for several hours. By the time they were off the estate, the sun had set and left only an orange glow on the horizon, reflecting under the building clouds. He prayed it wouldn't rain, but if the look of the sky had anything to tell, it very well might before morning. Erik caught up to him a moment later. He was beyond annoyed.

"So you're just going to run us all over the countryside and pray we don't get found? You really are an idiot!"

Raoul chose not to take the bait. It would serve no purpose but to agitate the phantom further, and he did not need to attract everyone within earshot by indulging in a heated argument.

"Belgium. We're going to Belgium. An old friend of my father lives just outside a small town on the other side of the border, he owes my family a favor for getting him out of debt a few years ago."

"And you are certain he can be trusted?"

"To be honest? Not entirely. But I do not know of any where better to take you. That little stunt you pulled with the chandelier at the opera house will not soon be forgotten around Paris. There's no definitive proof you killed Piange or Buquet but that's never stopped anyone from having a man executed. You have complicated your life considerably with your clever little antics!"

"If Christine hadn't unmasked me on a stage in front of five hundred people—"

"_If you hadn't forced her into that farce of an opera—"_

"**_If YOU hadn't insisted on using her as BAIT for the police—"_**

"Oh FORGET IT already! There's no point in this argument, what's done is done!"

They rode in the silent twilight for some time, ignoring each other, until Erik found something else to grouse about after a peal of thunder tore the darkening sky.

"And where are we to sleep tonight? A ditch?"

Raoul had half a mind to simply ignore him but decided he'd never get peace until he provided an answer.

"There are some small caves in the limestone a couple miles ahead. My brother used to bring me to them once in a while to play when I was a child. They will be shelter enough."

At that statement, another flash of lightning lit up the clouds and the sky opened up. They broke into a gallop, but were soaked through by the time the reached the place Raoul spoke of. They left the horses to weather the storm outside as the opening to the cave was too small to allow them through. It was still early fall and not yet bitterly cold, but the chill wind cut through their clothing and they ran to the caves with haste. Erik collapsed to the ground just a few feet inside, far more winded than he should have been.

"You'll want to come further in. Get out of the wind before you make yourself sick again."

Erik simply squeezed his eyes shut and ignored Raoul. Raoul wasn't in the mood to argue, nor was he in the mood to play nursemaid again, so he walked over, grabbed the former phantom's ankles, and dragged him about ten feet back into blackness of the cavern. He ignored the flailing and protesting he got and sat down on the dry floor of the cave, stretching his sore legs out.

After a few minutes, Erik finally hauled himself to a sitting position as well. It wasn't long before the warmth of their dash to the cave wore off and both were shivering like wet toy poodles. Erik pulled his knees to his chest and laid his head on them, his teeth beginning to chatter. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Raoul threw an arm over his shoulder and dragged him close, but said nothing.

---

Raoul woke up with a heavy weight over his chest, confusing him at first. He opened one eye, then another. It took about ten seconds for his groggy brain to process, but only about a half a second for him to simultaneously sit up and shove Erik's head and shoulders to the floor, waking him with the impact. Erik shot him a look of pure hatred while rubbing the back of his skull. Thankfully, he was just embarrassed enough by the whole thing to remain silent.

It took a minute for Raoul to stand up. His muscles were sore from the long ride from the estate and spending the night on rock. He stretched and looked outside. The horses were standing underneath a tree eating the grass. At least his clothing had mostly dried overnight.

He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat back down, pulling out some of the bread and cheese his wife had thrown in the bag. There wouldn't be enough food to last them more than a few days, even on short rations. He tossed some to the phantom who chewed at it halfheartedly while he rubbed at his own eyes.

"We'll starve before we get to Belgium. I don't know why you didn't just let the police take me."

Raoul slammed his meager breakfast down on the cloth he'd unwrapped it from. He was getting sick of this.

"Because I'm not a selfish bastard like you, Erik. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe, there just might be someone in this world who wants you to live? Oh trust me, I'd much rather be at home with my pregnant wife than out here running away from the police with a madman. What she ever saw in you, I don't know. You hide underground, behind more masks than one and horde the only good thing about you—your music—all to yourself! You think you're worthless? If you are worthless, it's because you refuse to do anything of worth! If you're a demon born of hell, it's because you _chose that path_!"

Raoul stood up and paced over to the mouth of the cave, watching the horses calmly plucking the grass outside. It was all he could do not to walk over and strangle the man sitting behind him. Guilt began to creep in over his outburst and he turned around to try to make some sort of amends. He wasn't expecting to be met with a fist to the side of his nose, but that's what he got.

He stumbled backwards, blood dripping down his face. His nose wasn't broken, but that was beside the point.

"Oh that is the last straw—"

He leapt at the phantom, knocking him over. The wrestled with each other about the floor of the cave like young boys fighting over a broken toy, kicking and scratching until Raoul finally had the exhausted phantom pinned down and wheezing like an asthmatic underneath him. He was about to give Erik a bloody nose to match his own when the pure rage drained from the man's face to be replaced by something akin to despair. Raoul leaped up like he'd been stung when the tears started.

"Jesus… I didn't mean it…"

He watched in confusion as the man curled in on himself, still crying and digging his nails roughly into his scalp. Raoul wasn't certain what he should do, so he just stood there scratching his head and wiping at the blood still oozing down his face for long minutes.

When it was clear that Erik was becoming more hysterical by the second, rather than calming down, Raoul finally went over to him, kneeling down beside him. He still wasn't sure what he should do.

"Seriously, I didn't mean it… Stop this… please?"

He tentatively reached a hand out, praying that Erik wouldn't just bolt from him or get even more agitated. He'd never seen anyone react like this. The man really was completely insane. He grabbed Erik's wrists and tried with some success to pull the stiff arms away the man's face. He wasn't entirely certain what tormented the man, but he could at least stop him from scalping himself.

"Come on now, stop it. You'll hurt yourself."

Erik pushed at Raoul's chest while simultaneously clutching his shirt, turning his head away, as though he was torn between killing Raoul and running from him. Raoul did not let go of his wrists, desperate to end this frightening fit.

"What's wrong? Just tell me! Christ—"

Erik wrenched his arms from Raoul's grasp and turned away from him. Raoul was infinitely grateful that the hysterical sobbing had finally ended.

"My mother should have drowned me like the priest told her to."

Raoul fervently wished he were somewhere else, not in a limestone cavern with this miserable wretch busy wallowing about in self-pity. He was supremely uncomfortable and fought with the impulse to simply get up and leave him on his own. He was stopped only by the knowledge that if he suddenly showed up back home with no phantom and no explanation, Christine would have his head.

They had lingered too long in this cave already. The sun was climbing over the horizon and they needed to leave. There was no time for this. Raoul reached for Erik, pulling at his upper arms, trying to coax him up.

"We need to leave. We've been here too long."

He wouldn't budge. It was like trying to move a boulder.

"So leave."

"You're coming with me whether you like it or not!"

He grabbed Erik roughly under the armpits and tried to drag him to his feet. He wouldn't stand on his own.

"Stubborn _ass! _Stand on your feet and move already!"

He wrenched Erik backwards in an attempt to pull the man's feet underneath him, stumbling slightly. His back hit the wall and he nearly dropped Erik, catching him only at the last second, clutching the limp form to his chest. Erik sagged in his arms like a puppet with no strings, apparently resolved to be completely uncooperative.

"This pouting is really unbecoming you know. Stop acting like a child!"

Raoul heaved a sigh in frustration and mentally counted back from ten. Erik couldn't keep this nonsense up forever, could he? He dropped his tired head forward, propped his chin on top of the other man's head and waited, trying to ignore the rapid panicked fluttering of the heart in Erik's chest, bringing unbidden to his mind the image of a small bird in a spider's web.

Or perhaps, again the spider in his own web. What was it Christine had said? That it didn't matter that the web was of Erik's own weaving? He wondered if he could ever be as generous as his Christine. He rubbed gently at the tired ribs underneath his hands for a minute before shifting Erik forward and up slowly until his feet were under him again.

"I'm letting you go, and if you do not stand under your own power this time, well, do not be surprised when you fall on your face."

Astonishingly, Erik stood, and even followed when Raoul gathered up the bag with their meager provisions and his pistol and went to retrieve the horses. They set out and spent the day riding in a sullen silence. The rain of the night before had turned into a light drizzle and the sky was gray and dim. They did not stop for lunch; Raoul merely handed bread over to Erik and they ate while riding.

They stopped in the evening, earlier than Raoul had initially planned, mostly because they had stumbled upon an unwatched orchard. With a twinge of guilt over the theft, Raoul filled the bag with apples and ate what he could of them.

The following days proceeded in much the same way, riding east while avoiding the main roads, pinching food from farmland they passed and taking shelter wherever they could find it. Raoul wasn't entirely certain where he was going; he only hoped that he could get directions from the locals when he was nearer to the Belgian border. For the most part, they avoided speech (except when Erik was in the mood to complain, which Raoul steadfastly ignored); the confusion and discomfort of the earlier episode a tangible thing between them.

They soon approached the border with Belgium. Raoul sought out a secluded wood and left Erik there with his horse, and approached a near by village on his own to seek out information from the locals of the whereabouts of M. Fremont. Apparently the man, now retired, had amassed a fair amount of wealth for himself as an architect and was living comfortable in a large home on land about a hundred and fifty acres just a day's ride north and across the border. He returned to were Erik was waiting impatiently in the woods.

"We're almost there."

"It's about bloody time."

"You do realize that it won't be safe for you to return to France for quite some time. Too many have heard the tale of the Opera Ghost."

Erik shrugged at him, but Raoul could tell he wasn't happy at the prospect of staying in Belgium.

"You never know, you might even like M. Jean Fremont. He's a retired architect. He was quite successful in his time. If you don't walk into his home acting like a complete bastard, you might even find yourself a friend."

Erik huffed indignantly, and for once, the action didn't send him into a coughing fit. Raoul was pleased that the days spent on the road in fresh air seemed to be giving the man his health back. The sun didn't hurt either. He was still impossibly pale, but no longer looked like something you'd expect to see in a morgue.

By the time the sun set, they were heading up the road to Fremont's home. Again, Erik was instructed to wait behind. Raoul knocked on the door a few times and chewed his lip while he waited for the butler to open the door and lead him inside. The master of the home was clearly surprised to see him, but seemed pleased.

"Little Raoul de Chagny! Well, not so little anymore, is he? Do sit down, boy!"

He seemed to sniff at the air and looked Raoul up and down.

"Sheesh, son, have you been sleeping in a ditch?"

"Actually… yes. And in caves and under bushes. I rode out here on horseback, camping along the way."

"Did you really? Queer things you young men get up to these days... Well, a bit of fresh air does wonders for you health, or so I've been told."

"I suppose it does. How are you, sir? Is your wife well?"

"I fine, she's well. The missus is out visiting her sister for the next few days, actually. And how are you, how is your brother?"

"We're both doing well, sir. I married last winter, you know. I'll be a father myself soon."

"Well congratulations, son!"

He grinned despite himself. He'd love nothing more than to sit and indulge in idle chat the whole night, after spending days on end with only a surly phantom for company, but he thought it would be unfair to lead Fremont on and leave Erik waiting by the gate all night. He cleared his throat and schooled his face into something more serious.

"I'm afraid, sir, that I did not travel out here on a social call. I am I need of some aid, and I believe you owe my family a favor."

The man's jovial expression turned suspicious.

"Hm, I suppose I do. So just what is you need, son? You and your brother haven't squandered your father's fortune, have you?"

Raoul was slightly taken aback at the suggestion.

"No! Of course not! No, a… friend of my wife… has gotten himself into a bit of trouble. He needs to avoid Paris for a while. A long while, likely. I… I need you to put him up for some time. Is it too much trouble?"

"Hm, well now, that's a horse of a different color. Might I inquire as to what crime he committed to lead to this delicate situation?"

Raoul sighed, something he found himself doing often lately. Fremont was an exceptionally perceptive man. There wouldn't be any fooling him. Raoul wasn't prepared to spill the whole truth, but perhaps he could explain it in part…

"There was an accident at an opera house… a large chandelier fell and injured several people and killed one, as well as starting a bad fire… he was implicated as the responsible party."

"Well, is he?"

"…Yes."

"Was it an accident?"

Raoul hedged the question.

"He certainly didn't mean things to end that way."

Not a lie, precisely…

"Hm. I'm not usually the type to harbor fugitives, you know, or muddle in the affairs of strangers..."

"Please, Monsieur Fremont. It would mean a lot to my wife Christine. I would appreciate it greatly… and you do owe my family a favor."

"Well… I'm cutting my own throat here, but I suppose I can spare a room in the servant's quarters. He'll be expected to pull his own weight around here in some fashion or other, though. I don't much care for freeloaders. Go fetch the boy, let me see him."

Raoul felt a sense of foreboding—would Erik ever agree to this? The man was mercurial at best, and not much for following rules or being pleasant company. He gulped and stood.

" He is recovering from recent serious illness, I don't know what sort of work he will be capable of. Also… I must warn you, he's a bit… eccentric. He's not really a bad man, at the end of the day, but life has not been too kind to him and he can be… difficult. Very stubborn."

"Is that so? Well, we shall see, won't we?"

Raoul was a bit bewildered at the man's apparent amusement with the situation, but walked toward the exit. Before he reached the door, he abruptly turned around once more.

"I should also warn you… One half of his face is deformed, I suppose it has been so since he was born, as he's never said otherwise. He's a bit… sensitive about it. He used to wear a mask even, but lost it some time ago. Please don't ask him about it or make reference to it."

"Fine, fine. Go already! I'm an old man, I don't need to be kept up all night!"

Raoul walked back to the gate slowly, steeling himself for what promised to be an unpleasant evening. He found Erik leaning against gate dozing. He stamped down the impulse to kick the man's legs out from under him. It was the sort of trick he and his friends often played on one another, but he doubted Erik would see the humor in it. Instead, he simply shook the man by the shoulder.

"Monsieur Fremont's agreed to let you stay, come on."

About halfway down the path, he stopped again. The nearly sleepwalking Erik almost ran into his back. Raoul turned around to face him, looking him up and down critically. Erik fidgeted under the sharp gaze.

"I suppose it should go without saying that you ought not cause this man any trouble. As much as I loathe sounding like my own father, you'd better be on your best behavior. You're only here at his blessing, don't forget that. You'll be polite, and above all else, _control your temper!_ I don't care if he calls you names that would make a sailor blush. He also expects you to help out around the place. I don't know what task he has in mind, but don't complain. Your continued existence may well depend on his hospitality."

Erik rolled his eyes, then nodded. They made their way back to the house and the parlor within.

M. Fremont was already standing when they entered. Erik all but hid behind Raoul and the younger man had to stifle a chuckle at the oddly child-like behavior. M. Fremont, however, was not so reserved. He gave a great chuckle and held a hand out to Erik like he would have with a small child hiding in his mother's skirts.

"Well come on out son, I won't bite."

Erik hesitated; Raoul jabbed him in the ribs sharply with his elbow. Erik flinched, but stepped forward, taking M. Fremont's hand as expected, though his eyes remained trained at some imaginary point near the floor. The man gave it a hearty shake.

"Alright then! That's better. I'm Jean Fremont. Have you a name, boy?"

"Erik, Monsieur."

"Erik… Erik what?"

Erik shrugged. Raoul half expected him to bolt out the door any second, the way he was shaking. Raoul felt a bit sorry on the man's behalf. He was normally quite a confidant and imposing figure, but without his mask and cape, his normally ample ego seemed to have deflated considerably.

"Just Erik, as far as I know…"

"Huh. Well, Just Erik, welcome to my home."

Fremont seemed to notice the man's growing agitation and called for the butler.

"Albert! Show this young man to the room at the end of the servant's quarters… Run him a bath before he retires while you're at it… And tell Pierre to go find their horses and stable them, if you see him."

Albert nodded to his master and beckoned Erik to follow, who gave Raoul one last uncertain glance and trailed after the butler.

"Skittish thing, isn't he? Did his mother beat him or something?"

Raoul gulped. He really wasn't comfortable speaking so flippantly about the sometime violent and always private man's past, but if he knew Jean Fremont as well as he thought, he knew he wouldn't be leaving the room without coughing up at least a few basic facts.

"I don't think so… though the gypsies she sold him to likely did. I think his mother mostly ignored him."

"Gypsies, huh? Well that explains his manners…"

"Well… Christine told me once not to expect too much of him. She's probably right."

"Probably right? I'd say she's dead wrong. People tend to live up to what you think of them. If you want someone to act like a man, expect him to act like one! By the way, how long were you planning on staying yourself? You've obviously had a long journey. I insist you stay the night, at least."

"Thank you, sir. I don't really know. Once Erik seems settled in, I'll probably leave. Knowing Erik, though, that may take a while. I'm sure my wife is worried sick, though..."

Raoul sat down and leaned his head back against the plush couch. He truly was exhausted. Fremont glanced down the hall Erik had walked down a few minutes ago.

"The chandelier wasn't an accident, was it?"

Raoul opened his eyes and looked at Fremont carefully, before shaking his head.

"The situation was.. is complicated. I won't say that you have nothing to fear from Erik, because he truly does have the temper of the devil when roused, but he does not normally seek out confrontation or violence. Mostly he just seems to want to be left alone..."

"Hm."

Fremont sat back himself, propping his feet up.

"I don't suppose he does anything besides dropping chandeliers on the heads of opera-goers?"

"He's a composer and a musician, mainly. A good one at that. A genius, really, from what Christine has told me. He also knows quite a few tricks with smoke and mirrors, not all of them entirely harmless…"

Raoul was cut off by Fremont's unexpected laughter

"And more than a bit mad to boot? I know the type. I'm a bit of the type myself… or used to be when I was younger. He'll calm down with age."

Raoul was skeptical, but did not presume to contradict the older man.

"I hope so, for his sake."

"He will, trust me… Anyhow, I'll have Albert draw you a bath as well, then you'd best get to bed yourself. You're clearly exhausted."

---

Raoul soaked in the proffered tub until the water had gone quite cold before slipping between the sheets of the soft bed. It seemed like a lifetime since he'd slept on a proper mattress and fell asleep almost immediately. He was loathe to move the next morning when a servant knocked on his door and announced breakfast. He dragged himself out of bed and dressed, his clothing having been washed earlier by some servant and placed over a chair in his room apparently while he'd been sleeping.

He sat down in a seat beside M. Fremont. Erik was already sitting in the place across from him, staring at his breakfast as though it might reach up and bite him.

"Good morning, Raoul, I presume you slept well?"

"Very well. Thank you."

"And what about you, Erik? Hm?"

Erik did not look up from his plate, and answered in clipped tones.

"Fine, sir."

"Look up when you speak, son. Your breakfast doesn't care what you have to say."

Erik frowned, but pulled his gaze from pastry and fruit in front of him.

"I'm not your son."

Fremont frowned back at him, exaggeratedly so. He was clearly having him on, clear to Raoul at least, though Erik cringed under the expression.

"There's no need to be rude, you know. You're still somebody's son, whether you like it or not."

Fremont reached to pat his arm, probably intending to be reassuring, but Erik jerked his hand back like he'd been burned. Fremont shook his head and turned back to Raoul, who had been waiting quietly for all hell to break loose.

"So tell me about your wife, why don't you? Christine you said her name was?"

"Christine Daaé, until recently. She was an opera singer."

"An opera singer? Your brother allowed this marriage?"

"Not without much protest, but as he does not seem inclined to marry himself, I think he's secretly relieved at having the burden of providing an heir for the family lifted from him."

Fremont glanced at Erik from time to time, who was picking nervously at a croissant, but paid him no mind otherwise.

"Hm, he never did seem the type to settle down. You said you'd be a father yourself soon. How soon do you expect?"

"Two months, from what the doctor said. He advised us to prepare for twins."

Erik suddenly choked on a piece on the apple he'd just taken a bite from. Fremont did not take his eyes from Raoul, but reached out a large hand and slapped him hard on the back a couple times until the offending piece of fruit was dislodged.

"Chew your food, son."

Raoul glanced across at him, raising an eyebrow in question. Erik merely shrugged and dropped his gaze back to his lap, coughing and swallowing several times to help clear his throat.

"I've got a niece who's determined to be an opera singer. I don't think she'll ever develop the voice for it, but try telling that to a ten year old with stars in her eyes. But who knows what she'll sound like in a few years? She's still a child."

He turned to Erik, who was still intently studying his napkin.

"So Raoul tells me you're something of a musical genius."

Erik's head jerked up and he stared at Fremont like a spotlighted deer. He seemed at a loss for how he should answer the statement.

"Not going to deny it, huh? Well, since you're staying here for some time, there's a piano in the parlor. It's terribly out of tune, but if you can fix it, you're welcome to play it. My daughter used to play before she married and moved to Germany."

Erik blinked at him.

"I think the phrase you're looking for is 'thank you,' if you're confused."

Erik cleared his throat again and gave a furtive glance at Raoul from the corner of his eye.

"Thank you… sir."

Fremont chuckled loudly. Erik blushed to his ears, the already pink skin on the right side of his face flushing a bright red. He started grinding his teeth.

"Hopeless, you are! Well, worry not, we'll make a proper gentleman of you yet!"

Fremont gave Erik another hearty slap on the back, ignoring the flinching. Erik looked like he was torn between throttling Fremont on the spot or disappearing under the rug. Raoul gave him an apologetic look and blushed slightly himself. The whole situation would be highly amusing to him if it had involved anyone besides Erik. He just prayed the former Opera Ghost could keep his murderous tendencies under control.

Erik stood up abruptly and excused himself from the table, wandering off towards the front of the house.

"Well, at least he hasn't forgotten all of his manners. Is he always this high strung? I swear, I've owned thoroughbreds calmer than him…"

Raoul shrugged. The sounds of an out-of-tune piano being plucked at and toyed with reached their ears.

"I suspect he'll be more tractable once he's got that piano repaired. Music is about the only thing that makes him happy. I hope you like music yourself, you probably won't be able to tear him away from that thing now that you've given him permission…"

"Well, if it keeps the lad from breaking my neck, he's welcome to it… So how did your wife meet him? Did he work for the opera as well?"

"I… suppose you could say that."

"And they have some kind of history together? He seemed rather upset at the prospect of her bearing your children…"

Raoul gulped and glanced toward the hall, the discord of the untuned piano slowly beginning to coalesce into something more harmonious.

"He was rather in love with her for quite some time… he still is, I think."

"Hm, now that is a bit of a pickle. I'm surprised he seems to tolerate you so well. Might even like you, if my instincts aren't entirely mistaken."

"Oh he certainly doesn't like me. He just has no other choice at the moment. He has few friends besides myself and Christine. Other than Mme. Giry and her daughter, I don't think any one else even knows his name."

"You never know, son. He might well like you, even if his pride won't admit it. Don't underestimate him."

A sweet, dark melody floated in to the two from the parlor, halting the conversation. Raoul recognized the piece as coming from some opera he'd seen once, though the name escaped him. He wondered if Erik would ever have the courage to play his own compositions in this stranger's home.

The song ended and another began, something angry with a heavy tempo.

"He is quite talented. I wonder if he'd be willing to spend some time with my niece? My wife is bringing Anna back with her to stay a month or so, I believe…"

Raoul thought for a minute, but honestly couldn't provide any prediction.

"I don't know, sir. I haven't seen him around children, I do not know how he would react to one. He is rather guarded with his music, though. Other than Christine, I don't believe he has ever offered lessons to anyone."

"I might be able to talk him into it. I told you I'd expect him to pull his weight around here, and that might just be a suitable rent for him."

"Piano lessons, perhaps. I don't think you could get voice lessons out of him for any cause. His lungs aren't quite what they were before he fell ill yet, if for no other reason. His voice is still a bit hoarse as well, actually."

"He sounded fine to me, what little he spoke."

"I suppose he sounds normal enough by the standards of most, but before his illness… Suffice it to say, when Christine first heard him, before she saw him, she mistook him for an angel of music. Her father used to tell her tales of the angel of music as a child, and she always had a fanciful imagination…"

Fremont chuckled at that statement. Raoul wasn't quite far removed enough from the ordeal to laugh yet, and merely became pensive.

"Must have been a real shock when she met that face!"

"It was."

"I suspect it would be rather difficult to woo a girl with that mug. Too bad for him."

Raoul shook his head, still staring down the hall in the direction of the sound floating through the home.

"He almost had her but for his temper and fits of madness."

"Hm. I think I'd like to meet this Christine of yours sometime. She sounds like a remarkable woman."

Raoul grinned at that and turned back to Fremont.

"Oh, she is."

"Hm. Well, you'll have to bring her by for a visit, and your children, when they are old enough to travel. As it is, I think you should be getting back to her. I'll have Pierre saddle your horse for you and you may leave after lunch. Do stay at a few inns on the way home. Sleeping in ditches can't be good for your back."

"But Erik—"

"I'll look after him for you, I promise. I can handle him. Anyhow, finish your breakfast. I think I'm going to go have a chat with our friendly madman in there."

---

Jean Fremont met a lot of odd people throughout his life, but learned early on that there are certain constants in the human race that could be expected of even in the strangest sorts. Raoul seemed wary of this creature he led about, but Jean was not about to be afraid of the young man. He knew the type well enough. Eccentric, abused, misunderstood (or at least that's what they always insisted themselves), and not generally a willing participant of the human race. They tended to hide themselves well enough, usually either behind a mask of indifference or anger. Jean Fremont prided himself on being able to see through both.

He wasn't about to let the boy hide, though, while he was staying in his home. He would participate in life here whether he liked it or not. That was one of Jean's rules, and his guests followed his rules while in his home.

He walked into the parlor to find Erik pounding away at the piano, some piece by Beethoven he couldn't remember the name of. He sat down on the bench beside the man, who took no notice of him, and crossed his arms to wait for Erik to acknowledge his presence.

The song ended and Erik nearly fell off the bench when he finally noticed that he was not alone.

"You know what you're doing, I'll grant you that. Did Raoul explain the conditions under which you are being allowed refuge here?"

Erik nodded, his fingers clearly itching to get back to keys.

"My wife will be returning from her sister's home later this week. She's bringing my young niece back with her. She's had some instruction on the piano already. A bit more wouldn't hurt her..."

Erik's expression darkened as he spoke.

"…or if you'd prefer, you can spend your time helping the stable hands. I breed horses, you know. Thoroughbreds mostly, and a few Arabs on the side. I'm sure the stable hands would be happy for the extra help. They'll lend you a shovel at least."

Erik ground his teeth together until the vein in the center of his forehead stood out. Fremont swallowed a chuckle, not wanting to upset him.

"I'll teach the girl, if she's serious about wanting to learn. I've no patience for dilettantes."

"She's a bright child. I assure you she's quite serious about everything she does. Too serious for a ten year old girl, really. Well, I'll leave you to your music. Lunch is served precisely at one, do not be late."

With that, Fremont got up and retired to his study to look over his accounts. His horse breeding venture had turned out to be quite profitable. The nobility of France, Belgium and Germany were all quite fond of thoroughbreds and he had little trouble finding buyers for his animals. The Arabs were not quite so fashionable at the moment, but he was rather fond of them himself, and could afford to keep them as something of a personal indulgence. If nothing else, he occasionally used them as an outcross for his thoroughbreds.

The sounds of the piano continued through the morning, and he found himself humming along to the few songs he was familiar with. He couldn't say it wasn't a nice change to have a bit of noise about the house, though the beautiful sound hardly deserved to be called "noise". Nevertheless, he'd missed the sound of that piano terribly since his only daughter married and left home eight years ago, though she played for him when she visited over the holidays. The home had been utterly quiet for the past three, since his youngest son left.

Lunch was served promptly at one, and Erik even managed not to be terribly late, to the great surprise of both Raoul and Fremont, as wrapped up in his music as he'd been all morning. They ate quietly, despite Fremont's attempts to coax them into friendly conversation. Raoul was still exhausted from the trip from home, and was not looking forward to the trip back. It would be quicker, at least, since he could utilize the main roads and sleep in the inns instead of having to skulk about in the woods. When they finished eating, Fremont led them both into the parlor and shook Raoul's hand.

"It was a pleasure having you, Vicomte de Chagny. You must visit when your wife is able to travel again."

Erik glanced between them as if they'd been in on some secret and he'd been excluded.

"You're leaving already?"

"I've been gone from Christine far too long as it is, Erik. You'll be fine here. You can trust Monsieur Fremont."

Raoul gave Erik a light pat on the shoulder and looked at him hard for several seconds.

"You'll be fine. I'll come visit in a few months."

With that, he left Erik standing in the parlor in the care of what might well have been a complete stranger. He scratched at the back of his head and squirmed under the man's gaze.

"Well, it's just the two of us until my wife returns, I suppose. I expect her back the day after tomorrow. Until then, you're free to do what you please, as long as you do not damage or disrupt anything. There are servants about if you need something… I was about to go out to the stables myself, if you'd like to join me for a ride."

Erik swallowed and glanced at the piano.

"Of course, if you'd rather stay here with the piano, I understand. I imagine you've had your fill of riding for the moment, though your horse is in the stable if you ever want her."

"The horse belongs to the Vicomte."

"I'm sure he doesn't mind you borrowing the animal for a while longer. He would have taken the horse with him if he did. I doubt he'd simply forget her, she's quite a well-tempered beast from what the stable hands told me last night."

Erik thought that the Vicomte would not waste a good animal on him and that there must be something wrong with the mare, but he did not voice the thought.

The rest of the day and the next, Erik spent his entire time at the piano. It had been so long since he'd played anything, his soul ached for the long absence of the music. He was more than a little surprised that Fremont put up with it so easily. Much of what he played was far from sweet or friendly, but no complaints issued forth from the study in which the old man spent most of the day.

It bothered him greatly that he couldn't figure out the old man, no matter how much he thought about him. He did not react to the sight of his unmasked gargoyle-face; in fact, he seemed not to care one whit about his ghastly appearance. He didn't doubt that Raoul had forewarned him of it, but even with due preparation, the few who had seen him without his mask had all balked at the sight. He didn't know why the man was so friendly either. He didn't seem to feel sorry for him. It must be an extension of his friendship with and debt to the Vicomte, that was the only decent explanation.

---

Fremont waited at the gate for the return of his wife and niece. He wanted to catch them before they entered the house. The carriage approached and when it arrived at the gate, he held out a hand to stop the driver, hopping up next to the window to speak with his wife. His niece was in the far corner, asleep.

"Welcome home, darling!"

"Hello, Jean. What are you doing out here at the gate?"

"I need to speak with you before you go inside. Little Raoul stopped by the day before yesterday. Not so little anymore, the Vicomte de Chagny now."

"Oh, is he still here? I'd love to see how he's grown. He was such a sweet little boy."

"No, I'm afraid he's returned to his wife. They're expecting twins soon, don't you know? But we can talk about him later—what brought him out here in the first place is what I need to speak to you of immediately. A friend of his wife has gotten himself into a spot of trouble in Paris and he brought the lad out here to us. He'll be staying with us for a while, I suspect."

"_Another_ one of your strays, dear? Didn't we talk about this earlier? Well, regardless, I hardly see how that garners stopping us out here by the gate—"

"Well, you see, he's a bit of an oddball. A musician and composer, quite talented from what I've been hearing from that old piano. I have to warn you though, half his face is rather severely deformed, from birth I've been told. Raoul says he's quite sensitive about it, and as he seems rather sensitive about nearly everything, so far as I can tell, so I don't think it would be a good idea say anything to him about it. Wake up Anna when you get to the house, and tell her not to stare or ask questions before you come inside. He's agreed to give her piano lessons in return for our hospitality and it would not do to have her upset him the second they meet."

"Of course, dear. You needn't worry about it, she's a good girl."

"Well, I'd better run back and warn him to behave himself as well, he's a bit lacking in manners—raised by gypsies you know."

"Gypsies? Are you sure it's wise to have him in the—"

He was already off and running before she could finish.

Fremont made it back to the house before the carriage, taking a shortcut through the lawn. He pulled Erik away from the piano and fussed with his clothing and hair, much to Erik's extreme consternation.

"I don't have to warn you not be rude to my wife, I'm sure. The little girl, Anna, is the one you'll be instructing, so you should probably not make an enemy of her either. They'll be here any moment, at least _try_ to be pleasant!"

He led Erik into the front hall just as the two females walked in the door. Erik was slightly annoyed at the obviousness with which the child looked at everything in the room except for him, but merely decided to follow suit and ignore her as well. Fremont's wife introduced herself as Dorothée and insisted he call her Dory as all her friends did. Her glance lingered on the right half of his face longer than it should have, but he was relieved that she was not openly gawking at him, merely doing a quick (and what she no doubt thought covert) study. After a minute, she seemed to have satisfied her curiosity, at least.

Dory shook the child's shoulder to get her wandering attention and introduced her as well. This action, regrettably, forced her to look up at him. He could sense the slight fear in her countenance but did nothing to either increase or lessen her apprehension.

"Anna, Monsieur Erik here will be instructing you at the piano while you are staying with us."

She did not seem happy at the prospect and made no reply to the statement. Dory frowned at the child.

"Honestly Anna! I know your mother taught you better manners than this. Well, it is almost time for lunch, go wash up."

She gave the girl a sharp swat on the buttocks as she bolted up the stairs before turning back to her husband and Erik, smiling once again.

"She is sometimes rather shy, especially around men she does not know. You will have to forgive her rudeness. She will warm up to you in time, I'm sure."

Erik waved off the woman's apology. He knew exactly what the child's problem was with him, and could not fault her for having the same reaction as nearly everyone else. He doubted she would ever "warm up" to him, given all the time in the world. Dory took her husband's arm and headed toward the parlor. Erik assumed he was meant to follow and did so, sitting in a plush chair next to the sofa where the husband and wife were seated.

"So you are a musician, I understand?"

"Yes Madame… among other things."

"Again, I insist you call me Dory. 'Madame' makes me feel terribly ancient. I trust your stay here has been pleasant thus far?"

"Yes, quite."

Dory raised an eyebrow at the young man. He wasn't very talkative, that was for sure.

"Well, I am glad you've tuned that old piano. It's been sitting undisturbed for years I'm afraid, ever since Sophie married and moved back to France with her husband. I do so miss hearing it. Well, lunch is nearly ready, we had best move into the dining room."

Anna showed up as they were sitting down, and much to her and Erik's mutual annoyance, Dory maneuvered her to sit next to him while she sat beside her husband and across from Erik. The entire affair was exceedingly comfortable for the both of them despite the efforts of Fremont and his wife to break the ice between the two of them.

"I know Anna is tired after traveling, but perhaps the two of you can begin lessons tomorrow morning. A couple hours before lunch, I think, then Anna, you will practice on your own afterward."

Neither of them seemed thrilled at the prospect. If Erik didn't like the idea of having to teach the brat, he certainly didn't like the idea of being separated from the only musical instrument in the house for hours at a time. Anna simply looked as if she'd sooner swallow a toad.

After lunch, Erik slipped outside to walk about the property. He had not gotten a good look at it when he arrived, as it had been after dark. The estate was not especially large, only a couple hundred acres mostly of pastureland and a few wooded patches. Most of it was inhabited by the horses Fremont was so fond of. He did not return in time dinner, and got cross looks from Fremont and a typical mother's scolding from Dory.

The next day after breakfast, he and Anna were ordered into the parlor to the piano by Dory. The child still seemed frightened of him, casting furtive glances at him about chest-level but otherwise refusing generally to look his way. He rolled his eyes in frustration and told her to sit at the bench. He immediately found fault with her posture and corrected it before they started. He found her to be a passably decent pianist, technique-wise, for one her age, though her playing was dreadfully flat and uninspired. After a few minutes, he stopped her playing.

"Your uncle says you want to be an opera singer."

She nodded shyly, still staring at the keys.

"Do you think that if you sang the way you played just now, you would convince anyone that you are something other than an ordinary bored ten year old girl?"

She sat silently, waiting for him to continue. After a few moments it became clear to her that he expected an answer.

"I… I don't know, Monsieur."

"I do. You wouldn't. What do you feel when you play this music? If your answer is 'nothing' then you will never be an opera singer, much less a musician of any sort. Music is not simply a series of dots written on a page, girl! It moves. It breathes. It has a life and soul of its own, _unless you sap the life out of it by playing like a dullard!_ Start again!"

She sniffled at him and he was almost afraid she would begin crying and that Dory would show up to scold him like a naughty child again. Thankfully, the girl swallowed the tears and composed her self, and began again. He could tell she was trying to do as he said, but the only emotion to seep into the music at all was timidity and fear, and it was discordant with the bright heroic piece. His head began to ache. This was hopeless.

"No! Stop, please!"

'I.. I'm sorry, Monsieur. I promise I am trying!"

She was clearly working hard to keep herself from crying now, not entirely succeeding as a few tears slipped out and trailed down her round cheeks. She wiped at them furiously, obviously hoping he wouldn't see. Erik ground his teeth as was his habit when frustrated and rubbed at his eyes, trying to reign in his temper. He wanted nothing more than to throttle the girl—he could almost imagine wrapping his hands around her thin neck and shaking her like a rag doll. He'd killed many men, but he'd never harmed a child in his life and the impulse writhing around in his belly like a serpent made him uneasy. He would have to control himself, or he'd find himself on the streets of an unfamiliar country. It was obvious even to a stubborn ass like him that scaring the child was counterproductive.

"I know, Anna, just… Just stop for a minute."

He shook his head to clear it and stood up, looking at the music on the page in front of the girl. He ordered her to stand up and then sat down in the center of the bench.

"I'm going to play this piece through once for you, and I want you to close your eyes and listen carefully. Don't think about anything, just _listen_. Let it surround you, let the emotion soak into your heart. Don't simply hear it, _feel it_."

He didn't know why, but he was suddenly determined to show this vulgar child a piece of the world in which he lived, to drag her kicking into the music of the night, if only for a brief moment. He began the piece again, shutting his eyes against the piercing glare of daylight, and poured himself into the music as he had not poured himself into something since his ill-fated performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_. He did not notice when Dory and Fremont walked into the room. Neither did Anna.

When he finally ended the piece, lightyears later, the room was silent for several heartbeats. He opened his eyes and balked when he noticed the Fremonts standing in the doorway, but said nothing to them. He turned to Anna who still seemed half in a dream. He poked her lightly on the arm and she snapped back to herself instantly.

"Wow… I could never play like that."

"If you don't try, you certainly never will."

He stood up again and motioned for her to sit down.

"You're going to play this now, and I want you to play it how it's supposed to be played. Show me the soul of the piece, not what's written on the damned paper!"

She gulped, clearly nervous. She raised her hands over the keys to begin when he suddenly snatched the sheet music off the piano.

"How am I supposed to play without that!"

"You know the music. You've been at it all morning. You were inside it a moment ago, I know. It doesn't even matter if you deviate from what's on the page, as long as the soul of the music is preserved. I didn't even learn how to read music until I began composing. You only need it because someone idiot teacher made you believe you need it. You don't, and it is supreme folly to believe you can learn music with your eyes!"

She stared at him for a moment, truly looking at him for the first time since they met. He was bewildered by the fact that she seemed more transfixed by his eyes than his misshapen skin, but pushed the observation to the back of his mind for another time.

"Play! If my presence bothers you, I will leave you to practice on your own, but I'm taking this—"

He waved the sheet music noisily in front of her nose.

"—with me!"

He exited through the door opposite from the Fremonts, not wanting to face them at the moment. He felt rather naked at the moment for some reason and swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat. He walked up the stairs to the bedroom he'd been given and sat down on the bed, looking out the window at the horses grazing peacefully in the distance.

He hadn't created music like that since the night he lost Christine. For a long time, he thought he no longer had it in him, that perhaps whatever music he'd had, had been passed fully onto Christine, willingly drained from him. He had reveled in it in the moment, his own soul pouring out through the piano, mingling with the spirit of the song.

Now, he simply felt foolish. Why bare the essence of himself to these ungrateful gluttons? They would only drink of it greedily, swallowing it down without tasting, never understanding and giving nothing back. There was no music in them.

Teaching that child was nothing like the joy teaching Christine had been. Anna didn't understand what had been natural and intuitive in Christine: music was not just a collection of pretty sounds. The whole was far greater than the sum of it's parts; it was the sound of life, it was the language of stars and creation… It was as close to the divine as the profane mortal, as a beast born of hell such as himself, could hope to come, and music did not warrant abuse and misuse at the hands of the thoughtless base pleasure-seeking masses.

Erik pulled his boots off, tossing them to the floor at the foot of the bed and lay down, pulling a pillow over his head. The ache between his eyes had blossomed into real pain and the sunlight streaming in through the windows tormented him.

Could such depraved cruel creatures, whose idea of good entertainment consisted of watching a deformed child being beaten in a gypsy's cage, ever truly be lifted beyond themselves? He could almost believe that Anna had come close to the truth while he was playing for her earlier. More likely, that was merely wishful thinking…

He was nearly asleep when a soft knock on his door cut through the fog surrounding his brain. He was not in the mood to be social and rolled onto his side away from the door, deciding to feign sleep. The door opened and footsteps crossed the room and the mattress sank beside him.

"That was quite a performance you gave earlier."

He didn't respond and hoped M. Fremont would take a hint and leave him in peace.

"I know you aren't asleep. You're hiding again. The question is, are you hiding from us, or are you hiding from yourself?

When Fremont snatched the pillow off his head, he leapt to his feet and stomped over to the corner of the room, half out of anger and half to avoid the sunlight that stabbed at his throbbing head. He faced the wall with his arms wrapped around each other tightly, refusing to look at the old man. He wanted to strangle something, preferably Fremont, but he did not have his lasso.

"You did nothing wrong down there. Nothing! What you did for Anna was very good! I don't know what worries you so. That somebody might like you? Does that thought scare you? The thought that somebody might want to know you?"

Erik turned around to face his tormenter.

"There is no reason for anyone to 'want to know me.' If you knew half of what I am, a quarter of my history, of what I've done, you would throw me out of your home instantly!"

"I'm not interested in your past, son, other than in the capacity in which it affects your present. All I care is about is _what you do now._ Who are you, today, in my home? You know what I saw this morning? An intelligent, passionate man sharing his gift with a child!"

"What does it matter? It is a waste of time, she will never understand! No one understands the music but me! No one but… but no one!"

"You mean, 'No one but Christine?'"

Erik made a noise that could only be interpreted as a snarl and aimed his fist at the man's face. Fremont caught it and twisted it over, pulling Erik's shoulder nearly out of joint. Erik gasped, astonished at the speed and strength in the aging man's frame, sinking to his knees under the pain. Fremont released him but he made no move to stand, staring at the man's boots in shock.

"I'll forgive that little slip in judgment if you'll do me one thing…"

Erik looked sideways up at him through the fringe of his disheveled hair.

"Admit to yourself that the self-hatred and fear you carry about like a suit of armor are doing you no service."

Erik simply stared at him in silence, his eyes squinting at the light in the room. The white pain behind his eyes bloomed wider.

"Come on, Erik. Just admit it and I will leave this incident behind us. You are clearly not feeling well."

"….Yes, sir."

"Yes, sir what?"

"I'm not helping myself any with fear or self-hatred."

"Good. That wasn't so difficult, now was it?"

Fremont reached down and Erik hesitating placed his long-fingered hand (the one attached to the uninjured arm) into the older man's. Fremont hauled him to his feet and pushed him toward the bed. Erik laid down and curled up on his side immediately and hoped Fremont would finally leave. He had no such luck. Fremont went over to the windows to close the drapes, darkening the room much to Erik's relief. He did not leave immediately, however, but sat down behind Erik again and proceeded to rub the abused shoulder firmly, gently coaxing the arm back into its joint. The hand moved to his back afterward, massaging the tense muscles in his shoulders. It felt good, but made Erik supremely uncomfortable regardless.

"You're right I don't know much of your history. Only what little I could coerce out of Raoul. I don't know why your mother treated you so poorly, but it wasn't your fault."

"My face—"

"You didn't choose your face. Neither did you choose your mother's reaction to it. She alone chose fear and hatred over love. I've seen children born in a sorrier state than you, and their mothers loved them all the same. I don't know what circumstances surrounded your birth, and maybe your mother had reasons for fearing what you represented to her, but you are not to blame for what are her sins alone."

"She ran from me when I tried to kiss her, threw the mask at me—"

The pain in Erik's head lessened with the darkness, but still throbbed in time with his pulse. Tears stung at his eyes. Fremont reached over to wipe them away. Erik's arms flew over his face when the man willingly touched his marred flesh and he cried out. Fremont withdrew and huffed in frustration.

"The point is, son, that while you are not responsible for the choices of your mother, you are still responsible for your own. If you choose hatred and fear over love, you have no one to blame but yourself when you find that you are completely alone. Whatever you've done in your life, and I suspect you've done things that would embarrass a pirate, there are still people in this world who are willing to give you a chance. I am willing to give you another shot. Anna is practically in love with you now, after that little trick you pulled earlier. Raoul, whether you believe it or not, seems to care about you… And Christine. She may not have consented to marry you, but she still obviously values your life, if she's willing to send her husband off into danger for your sake while she's seven months along. You know, Raoul told me that you almost had her, but for your temper and fits of madness. Those were his exact words."

Raoul's exact words cut him like daggers. He almost had her! Almost! If only he hadn't frightened her so! If only his face— Well, that was the point of this whole conversation, wasn't it? His face wasn't the problem. What an odd thought to have, that his face isn't the problem? That meant he had only himself to blame with Christine. If he hadn't been crying before, he certainly was now. Oh Christine!

"Christiiiine…"

"It's too late for that now, son, I'm sorry to say. But as the usual platitudes go, tomorrow is another day. Do not give up on yourself… Well, I'll let you be for a while, after I bring you something for that migraine. Do you get them often? No wonder you prefer dark places—awful things, headaches, my father used to get them…"

---

The following months passed quietly, relatively speaking. Erik was still prone to numerous angry outbursts, usually directed at his pupil, and a generally sullen demeanor, though. Even he had to admit that Anna was progressing steadily, if slowly. She would probably never be a true musician, but her playing was no longer stiff and dreary and she was playing more technically complicated pieces with ease. He was focused on training her ear at this point, trying to wean her off of sheet music entirely. She was meant to return home after Christmas, but after hearing her vast improvement on the piano, her mother had insisted that she stay and continue lessons after it became obvious that Erik was not inclined to visit any time soon.

His relationship with Fremont grew closer in some respects, but remained tense—the man was far too perceptive for Erik to ever trust implicitly and his pride would never allow him to let the old man into his heart fully. The occasional requests for a vocal performance also grated on his nerves. He would share his music on the piano willingly these days, but he kept his voice to himself. It was his one last connection to Christine and he had not utilized it since the final disaster at the opera house. He suspected that he may well never sing again.

Still, he surprised himself greatly with the fact that he found this provincial life of private tutor in a Belgian country home oddly amiable. His newfound peace, however did not last. A letter arrived one morning announcing the impending visit of the Vicomte de Chagny and his wife and children.

Twins, as expected. A boy and a girl, no less, both reportedly healthy children, now approaching four months of age. The boy was given the obvious name of Raoul and the girl was called Polymnia. Highly unusual, but Erik had no doubt that Christine was the one to blame for the ridiculous moniker. Who else would name their daughter after a Greek muse of sacred song? It was a silly sentimental thing, no doubt yet another outgrowth of her obsession with the Angel of Music. Erik shook his head. Knowing how nature's little ironies tended to run, he figured the child would turn out to be completely tone-deaf.

His mood became sullen and pensive while waiting for their arrival. How would he react to seeing the children born to Christine by another man? The mere thought of it made his stomach churn. And how would he react to Christine, herself? He had not laid eyes on her since the night the Opera Populaire burned. There was no point to feeling jealous anymore; he'd long since lost that game. He wanted to hate them, hate all four of them, but was astonished that he couldn't quite make himself do it anymore. He couldn't even hate Raoul anymore, not after the man pulled him from his hell underneath the ruined opera house and brought him to the only thing approaching a real home and family he'd ever had.

They arrived on a Sunday, mid-morning. It was a beautiful day, of course, how could it possibly be anything else? They stepped out of the carriage, each with an infant in their arms, smiling as if there were no tomorrow… or perhaps simply as if there was a tomorrow worth seeing. He hung back on the stairs while the Fremonts greeted them both warmly, Dory almost immediately squealing and snatching Raoul jr. from Raoul sr.'s arms. They retired to the parlor, cooing over the infants while Fremont talked animatedly with Raoul. He waved Raoul into the room with the women. He turned to the staircase and called up after Erik.

"I know you're skulking up there in the shadows. Remember what I told you about minding your manners in my house. You'll come down and greet my guests if I have to drag you down myself."

Fremont left to join the rest of the party, but Erik knew the threat was not an empty one. Erik slowly made his way down and timidly revealed himself in the doorway.

"Come in and sit, Erik, please."

Surprisingly, it was Christine who beckoned him in, patting empty chair beside the sofa. He silently accepted her offer, sinking into the plush cushions of the chair and keeping his eyes diligently trained on the patterns in the carpet. He felt a blush creeping up his neck and over his face, but he did not know quite what was causing the reaction. He wished the chair cushions would swallow him completely.

He half jumped out of his skin when a feminine hand settled on his arm. Christine pulled her hand off his sleeve at his reaction, but continued looking at him in question.

"How are you, Erik?"

"Fine, Madame…"

Christine seemed slightly horrified. Erik concurred with the feeling, wondering why he felt like he was suddenly fifteen again. Raoul passively watched the scene unfolding from over his wife's head. Erik could not read his neutral expression.

"I may be married now, but we are still friends.. are we not? You may call me Christine."

"Yes… of course."

Christine turned her attention to the infant in her lap and smiled. She glanced back at Erik with a face that eerily reminded him of a cat that had cornered a mouse.

"Erik, sit back a minute."

He wasn't sure what she was up to at first, but it became readily apparent when she suddenly deposited the squirming infant girl into his arms. He held the creature loosely like fine china, deathly afraid of harming the fragile-looking thing in his killer's hands.

The baby didn't seem nearly so concerned, calmly staring up at him with impossibly large blue eyes. He expected her to notice his face and start crying at any moment, but she simply kicked her feet occasionally and watched him. He knew that the child was Raoul's. Raoul's and Christine's. It didn't seem quite so repugnant now that reality was literally staring him in the face. He decided it was probably all for the best. Any children of his would risk inheriting his deformity. Fremont would accuse him of "sour grapes" should he ever voice these thoughts but he didn't care. The child was already pretty and would likely grow up to be as ridiculously attractive as both of her parents.

The two of them stared at each other, seeming content to study the faces in their view, one new and soft and perfect, the other ravaged and bewildered. Erik turned his head to the side like a confused dog, and the child actually smiled at him. His head jerked back slightly, not knowing what to do with the little thing.

Christine laughed at him and he looked up to find the entire room staring at him with mostly bemused smiles. Sensing his discomfort, Christine relieved him of his burden, handing the girl off to M. Fremont who obviously had more experience with infants, lightly petting the child's face and arms with a finger and babbling, being rewarded with many toothless smiles.

The house was much noisier in the following days, with the babies crying constantly, either one or the other, the de Chagnys and Fremonts chatting about everything and nothing, and Erik found himself spending his time upstairs in his room with the curtains drawn, nursing another headache. He didn't bother to sit up when he heard Christine walk to the guest bedroom across the hall from his where she and her little family were staying. She yelled down the staircase at someone below

"I'm just putting Polly down for a nap. I'll be there in a minute!"

He didn't look up when she entered his room with the younger Raoul laying on her shoulder, but, like Fremont, she wasn't fooled.

"Erik? Could you do me a favor? If Polly wakes up and cries, come and fetch me, will you? I'll be in the garden."

He mumbled his assent from beneath the pillow. He was in no mood to play babysitter, but arguing would require far more energy than he had at the moment.

He was quite asleep when the sharp sound broke into his thoughts. He didn't know how much later it was, but a cry from the other room cut through the fluff surrounding his brain. He was still a bit dizzy, but at least his head wasn't pounding anymore.

He walked out into the hall and glanced down the stairs. He didn't really want to walk all the way out to the garden, or wherever Christine was at the moment. He wandered into the opposite bedroom instead, peering over the basket on the bed at the child. Her intermittent cries ceased when she saw him, the look of pure scientific curiosity she'd given him earlier replacing it. He reached out a finger and touched the soft skin, gave a light poke to the belly. He sat down on the bed and peered at the child, trying to understand how something lacking impure motives or any depth of understanding, such a terribly simple creature, could look at him and not cry in fear? Who knows, maybe she'll be a singer after all. There was enough irony in the world already and no reason for nature to inflict more on the girl. Well, there was no reason to wait for her first lessons, he supposed.

He hummed lightly, a soft tune he'd long forgotten the name of, and after a few minutes began to sing softly to the child. He was somewhat surprised at the sound of his own voice. It was as rich as it had ever been, but had gained a slight roughness that was not entirely unpleasant—the legacy of his illness half a year ago, he supposed. Had it been so long? The girl's eyes drooped and she was soon asleep again. He did not cease his song though, continuing to the end.

The bell-like laughter that met the end of his lullaby jarred him out of his odd mood. He turned around to find the other occupants of the house all crowded in the doorway. He felt the blood heating his face, but sat stupefied next to the sleeping child.

"I think we've embarrassed him, love."

Christine walked in, set the other child, sleeping as well, into the basket with his sister, then returned to the crowd at the door. She pulled at her husband's arm and headed downstairs giggling like a school girl the whole way. Dory followed them soon after, leaving him staring at M. Fremont with his mouth still open like a fish.

"That was a sound I never expected to hear. Didn't think you'd ever find your voice again, frankly."

He walked over and sat on the bed on the other side of the basket.

"Do you think the child understands your music?"

Erik looked at the fat little thing sleeping peacefully.

"Probably not."

"Then why do you sing to her?"

Erik shrugged at him.

"Perhaps some gifts are not diminished in giving?"

"Hm."

"Some gifts only grow."

Erik fingered the pattern in the bedspread.

"You shouldn't fear giving of yourself. Some people will abuse the gift, there's no denying that. But, as they say on the horse tracks, if you never make a bet, you'll never win."

"Perhaps."

"You'll find your place eventually, I promise you. Just don't be afraid to ask for help in the search. You may find some people are more willing than you think."

"Perhaps."

Fremont gave his shoulder blade a quick rub and left him to rejoin the others.

Perhaps life was not so entirely hopeless after all.


End file.
